eyes shut tight, falling way too fast
by sunday nights
Summary: Dasey angst. What is black? Too many colors? Or none at all?


_eyes shut tight, falling way too fast_

What is the color black?

Too many colors mixed together? Or none at all?

**...**

She thinks it might be both, the first time she's ever used _might_ in a factual statement. She's learned from the countless textbooks and professors that a fact should be something that isn't questioned. But she's questioning this blackness (ohsomuch).

It's the middle of the night, the time of day that's too late to find company, yet too early to admit to being awake. The sole desk lamp on her plain wooden desk flickers eerily before snapping off completely with a quiet sizzle. She debates getting up to change the light bulb, but decides against it when realizing that action would require movement. Movement she is physically and mentally incapable of producing.

Her thin fleece blanket provides little comfort now that she's left alone with only the soft humming snore of her dorm mate seeping through the cracks of her door and the muted tapping of water dripping into the small (imitation) marble sink.

The darkness is killing her slowly. The emptiness is driving a knife into her brain, tweaking and thrashing, forcing it to think of the unthinkable. She sings a tune in her head, feeling the buzz of her tongue against the roof of her mouth. When that doesn't work (the damn song is _his_ favorite), she succumbs to counting sheep. Who ever coined that phrase anyway? It seems pointless to count a carefree creature when her brain is oozing full of less innocent thoughts.

And suddenly (is she dreaming?) there's a small flash of white and she's back to square one, his face looming ahead, her mouth clenching into a thin, straight line giving away no emotion. So she lies to him (lying to a dream; she knows she's going crazy).

"_I don't need you."_

A whisper into the empty silence that fills the air, swirling as if a speech bubble with the words in thick black ink. She squeezes her eyes tighter together until the whiteness and his face meld into blackness once again. (What is the color black?)

Her nails grip onto the tiny square blanket yet again as his voice seems to penetrate her skull that has been doing a (useless) job of defending her thoughts from his corruption.

"_Don't bullshit a bullshitter."_

Such a cliché phrase, but it fits him. He's calling her bluff and he's not even here. Her mouth is dry, saliva seeming to burn away from her lies, as she desperately licks her lips for any wetness. Her heart races at the speed of light and her fingers and toes tingle.

She coughs at a cynical laugh, a short bark of irony that all of the things she believed when she was younger, all the signs that pointed to "falling in love", are being wasted over him. On what is nothing more than physical compatibility and strong mental hatred.

**...**

"_Grow up, Casey," he smirks, shoving her into a random passerby._

_She mumbles an apology, the proceeds to spit out a condescending "De-REK!"_

_His relentless smirk grows wider until it nears a borderline grin and she scowls at him. She's the responsible sister and he's still the carefree, laid-back "chump" as she very irritably informs him._

"_You're going to learn to appreciate my innuendos one day," he snorts as her face turns a brighter shade of pink at his merciless taunting._

"_Oh, that'll happen just as soon as you grow up," she scoffs back, a smug smile dancing on the edge of her lips._

_Derek takes a step back, "You got me, Case. You burned me real fucking bad."_

"_First off, it's badly. Secondly, please don't be vulgar in public. People could hear and then get the absurd notion that I accept this kind of behavior. Furthermore, they might believe that I know you, or worse, am related to you, and then my reputation at this college will be ruined indefinitely."_

_Derek's head snaps up at the end of her sentence, "sorry, did you say something?"_

_In return, Casey yells the same words he had said minutes prior, "Grow up, Derek!"_

_**...**_

She hates the fact that his words have grown on her. His reasoning is no longer illogical or meaningless. She needs to grow up, she needs to forget him. Her bones ache from weariness and her teeth continue to chatter from the chilly air, wind wafting in from the crack of her broken window.

**...**

_It's two months into college, the air brisk, leaves swirling in the air from the warm autumn breeze. Casey shades her eyes with one hand, blocking them from permanent damage due to the setting golden sun. Her other hand holds a stack of books much too high for only two months into the semester. _

"_Spacey! What're you doing on this lovely Friday evening?" Derek asks mock politely, batting his eyelashes._

_She opens his mouth to inform him that she'll be attending a fancy soiree of some sort (of course it's a lie, she'll be studying until eleven and then most likely calling for Chinese and watching Casablanca on DVD). _

_But before she can start, he's cut her off, "Let me guess, Chinese takeout and some old movie you've rented from Netflix?"_

_She contours her face into an appalled expression, but she can't hold it, and her eyebrows begin to furrow and the frown begins to grow._

"_I'm that predictable?" she utters, before being able to hold the comment in._

"_Nora's weekly e-mails are less predictable than you are and you know how she sends them five-thirty every Thursday afternoon while Marti's at cheerleading." _

_She rolls her eyes in agreement, "Fine. What's your suggestion to break the predictability curse?"_

_He raises a thick eyebrow in dismay, "Hey now, I never said I'd help. I merely said I could guess what you were doing tonight. Don't rope me into this. It's not my fault your college social life is near-nonexistent."_

"_Well, what are you doing tonight?"_

"_No way, Casey. No way in hell."_

_She tugs his arm, almost dropping her books, "Come on! You said it yourself, I need to have a social life. How am I supposed to do that when I don't know anyone?"_

"_Make your own friends, Casey. I'm not your wingman. I don't even like you enough to drag you to one of the lame parties I'm hitting up tonight."_

"_Please?" she begs with a growing pout._

"_How am I supposed to introduce you and make you seem… oh, I don't know, human? I'm not going to lie my friends and tell them what an incredible, awesome person you are!" his eyes sparkle in delight of his insult._

"_Just this once."_

_He agrees with not a yes, not a nod, but a grunt. A grunt and a shove. And a gruff, "hurry up."_

**...**

She's made few bad decisions in her life. She's only made a handful of terrible decisions. But in all her years of living, she knows for a fact that she's only made one awful, life-altering choice. And that choice was to attend a party with her stepbrother, the notorious Derek Venturi.

It's not solely his fault, she'll admit. She did ask for him to bring her along. And if she's not mistaken, she may recall saying a 'please'.

**...**

_Alcohol runs freely through her veins and she can feel it loosening her nerves, calming each individual one and shooting them a calming smile. She pulls her hair out of the careful ponytail and shakes it out, splaying her golden brown locks onto her thin shoulders._

"_What are you doing?" Derek croaks in response._

"_Taking my hair tie out," she giggles, pointing to the piece of rubber covered in black elastic material. _

"_No, what are you doing?" he repeats._

_That's when she realizes she is inches away from him on the couch. Having started on opposite sides, she can't imagine how she got to this position. His warm whiskey breath is hot against her cheek and his eyes are suddenly… what's the word? Smoldering._

_A thick-boned football player suddenly crashes into her, sending her even closer to Derek, his arms wound around her body._

_Suddenly, it's as if… it's as if her brain has turned into a scale. On one end are her logical thoughts: he's my stepbrother, this is so wrong, I hate him. But on the other end is a much heavier portion of her thoughts: his eyes, his hands, his warmth._

_She's not stupid. In fact, some may call Casey McDonald the exact opposite of stupid. But her following action constitutes as something stupid._

_She reaches her hand up to tangle in his thick, messy hair pulling his lips to hers._

**_..._**

What is black?

She saw it after kissing him (all the colors), she sees it now, alone in her room (none at all).

So she can't tell, exactly, if it's all or none, and she can only assume that blackness might be both.

**A/N: I know this is not Chuck/Blair or even Literati. In fact, this is some Dasey angst that I may or may not be proud of. It's not my best, but after a huuuge hiatus, I think I deserve tiny bit of props? Or not, whatever works.**

**Thanks for the read guys, it means a lot. Reviews are so welcome and so appreciated (: -Michelle**


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